


slow down (speed up)

by sysrae



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2012-2013 NHL Season, Age Difference, M/M, segs and jagr played on a line for a hot minute so I wrote this, sort of a first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 02:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: Tyler knows the Bruins just traded for Jagr, but hearing the news and actually meeting him are two very different things.





	slow down (speed up)

**Author's Note:**

> I would've left this in chat like god intended, but it's the first real thing I've written all year so [gestures broadly at the universe] have some smut, I guess!

Tyler knows the Bruins just traded for Jagr, but hearing the news and actually meeting him are two very different things. He's forty years old and looks it in the best sort of way, a gleam in his eye and a smatter of salt in his thick, dark flow and close-cropped stubble. His hand is large and calloused on Tyler's when they shake, his accent curling through every word like woodsmoke. Tyler hasn't had to deal with locker-room boners since he was fourteen or so, but Jesus _fuck_ , his dick doesn't care that Jagr's only looking him over the same way all hockey vets do, like he's a racehorse up for auction. Tyler swallows hard at the thought of Jagr buying him, measuring him up, and covers for it by being overly loud as he laughs and welcomes Jagr to the team, as though Z and Bergy didn't just do that already.

Jagr grins at him, a toothy smile that's just a little bit feral. "Eager," he says, to general amusement. Marchy leaps up and puts Tyler in a headlock, forcing him to wrestle for the tattered remains of his dignity as the chirps about hero-worship start up. "Fuck you," Tyler says, breathless with what he hopes is laughter, shoving Marchy aside. Jagr doesn't notice – he's already talking to Z again – but later, as they head out on the ice, he comes up beside him and murmurs, "I've seen you play. You're fast, Sego. Maybe they put me on your wing, huh?"

Tyler makes a startled noise, flushing all over again. Jagr just smirks at him and keeps going, leaving Tyler to stumble along in his wake like a wrongfooted puppy.

The hell of it is that they _do_ put him on a line with Jagr: Tyler at center, Marchy at left wing, Jagr at right. Tyler's always exhilarated playing hockey, but looking over and catching a pass from a guy who won two cups with Lemieux makes him feel like he's just taken a shot of chilled vodka. Thumping into a celly hug with him, feeling his hand grab the back of his helmet as Jagr roars joyfully in his face... Tyler would be lying if he didn't convert that feeling into jerkoff fodder, and fuck anyone who'd judge him for it.

Besides, what's the harm? Jagr is legendary, and no small part of that legend involves his skill at wheeling chicks. Nothing is going to come from it, which means there's no reason for Tyler to hide his awe at the guy or dial down his bro-flirty antics. Sure, he gets chirped a bit for it – especially from Marchy, who knows about Tyler being into dudes and is weirdly cool with it, to the point of only making thirst-jokes when they're alone together – but that's hockey, and Tyler gets his own back by being hot on the ice and pranking where appropriate.

And then, a little less than two weeks after Jagr joins the team, they play away against Carolina. They're in the dressing room, stripping down after pregame skate, and Tyler lets his gaze linger on Bergy a little too long, because Bergy is dad-hot in a way that he doesn't always notice until he _does_ , and today is apparently one of those days. He catches himself and looks away – only to find that Jagr has noticed him noticing. Tyler goes still, heart rabbiting, and is utterly unprepared for the slow, sharkish grin that spreads across Jagr's face. _Oh fuck_ , he thinks, and nearly trips over his garters in his haste to find something, anything, to distract him from the moment.

Jagr says nothing on the bus ride back to the hotel; nothing as they head in again to play the Canes; and nothing in the locker room after a frustrating 4-2 loss. Tyler showers in a silent simmer of anger and tension, not sure whether to be grateful for the fact that, with playoffs coming and their next game four days away, the powers that be have booked their flight home for tomorrow afternoon, gracing them with an evening and the better part of a day off in Carolina. The team already made plans to get drinks together, and while they'll be more subdued than if they were celebrating a win, it's gotta be better than stewing alone in his hotel room.

It's not until they're pressed together hip-to-thigh in a cramped bar booth, the ambient noise of teammates shouting to be heard over eighties rock music drowning out all else, that Jagr leans over, grips the back of Tyler's neck in a way that makes his hair stand on end, and murmurs into his ear, "Do you like girls, too?"

Tyler's knuckles whiten where he grips his drink. There's a snowflake's chance in hell of them being overheard, and this close together, with two beers simultaneously warming his blood and cooling his inhibitions, he's got no chance of feigning ignorance. "Yeah," is what he chokes out instead. "I – yeah."

"Me too," says Jagr, a purr in his voice, and oh, fuck, Tyler is _burning_. He senses more than sees that Jagr is grinning – feels the barest brush of his stubble against his ear, shivering at the contact – and fails to either drink or breathe in the laden pause that follows. Just when he’s about to burst, Jagr speaks again, voice somehow lower than before.

"You done much with men?"

For a wild, impossible second, Tyler considers lying, boasting about the expertise he lacks. Instead, he makes a noise in his throat and stutters out, "Not – uh, not – just a little. Handies. Threesomes. After the cup," he adds, partly to remind Jagr that he's actually won one, but mostly because he wants to make clear that it happened recently, not back in juniors or whatever.

"Hmm," says Jagr, noncommital. He gives Tyler's neck a final squeeze, then pulls his hand away.

Tyler watches, red and drymouthed, as Jagr downs the last of his whiskey – served over ice – before casually leaving a pile of cash on the table. Jagr stands to leave, then bends down to put his mouth to Tyler's ear again. "You want to do more with men, you know my room."

Tyler watches Jagr leave: clapping shoulders, ruffling hair, laughing his way out of the bar. He sits in a state of shocked arousal, hard and dazed and so out of it that, an indeterminate amount of time later, it takes Marchy three tries to get his attention.

"You okay, Segsy?" he shouts, grinning. "Need another drink?"

Tyler blinks and stares at his (somehow empty) beer. "No," he says slowly, pushing himself to his feet. "I think I'm gonna crash, man."

"Fuckin' pheasant," says Marchy, giving him an affectionate punch on the shoulder. "Sweet dreams, eh?"

"Yeah," says Tyler. "Sweet dreams."

 

***

 

Jarda had an inkling about Tyler's tastes the first day they met, but it wasn't until today that he felt them confirmed. He's been weighing it up for a good week now, to fuck or nor to fuck if the chance presents itself, comparing the pros and cons like line combinations. Jarda is forty now, a number he chooses to think of as little as possible; Tyler is twenty-one. More than once, it has occurred to Jarda that, had he fathered a son in his rookie year – and the prospect is far from impossible, especially once he won the cup – that child would now be a boy, or a man, of Tyler's age. The last few years, he's found himself eyeing certain teenagers in each upcoming draft class, amusing himself with the thought of a secret legacy; but of course, the joke is only funny so long as he does no research one way or another. Nonetheless, as Tyler's mother is single now, he took the time to establish that it wasn't always so; that a husband was once in the picture, a man whose face looks enough like Tyler's that Jarda can be confident his actions will cross no traumatising boundaries.

As soon as he lays his hand on Tyler in the bar, he knows he's made the right choice; can feel the promise in the boy, the raw and shuddering _want_ , that guarantees he'll find his way to Jarda's door. That being so, he saunters back to his hotel room in full confidence that, even though they lost the game, the trip to Raleigh will be far from wasted.

He strips to his briefs, for comfort as much as any other reason, arranges his supplies, and spends a good twenty minutes flicking idly through TV channels. There's not much on, but even if there was, he wouldn't be interested. The knock on the door, when it comes, is discreet but firm, a double-tap followed by silence. Jarda turns the TV off and sets the remote on the table. He stretches, stands and walks to the door, and lo, there's Tyler Seguin on the other side of it, already flushed below his close-cropped beard.

"Come in," says Jarda, stepping back just far enough for Tyler to comply. He watches the bob of his throat as he enters, leaning in to shut the door in a way that cages Tyler up against it. Tyler inhales sharply, brown eyes wide, lips parted on a greeting that never comes. Grinning, Jarda runs a thumb across his cheek, blood thrumming in anticipation as Tyler's head falls back against the door, an involuntary noise slipping out of that long, pale throat.

"You want me to teach you?" he murmurs, leaning in to graze his mouth over Tyler's neck.

The answer comes in a choked exhale. "God, please."

"Just Jarda," Jarda replies. "Not god." And before Tyler can respond to that, he sinks a hand into his hair and kisses him.

It's deep and slow, a way to claim and measure all at once. Tyler whines and pushes into it, wriggling with need. Jarda presses him back, body to body; grabs Tyler's hands and squeezes them still against the door's cool wood. Tyler bucks briefly against the contact and then melts, gasping into the kiss as his pulse beats hard enough for Jarda to feel it secondhand.

Jarda takes him apart with weight and patience, touch and tongue and skill. He frees Tyler's hands only to pin his hips; releases them to grab beneath his thighs and hoist him up, his body slotting into the ample space between his spread bowlegs.

Off the ice as on it, Tyler is all breathless, impatient speed. He claws at Jarda's back, bites kisses into his traps and shoulders, rocking against him with an urgency all the more flattering for being subconscious. Off the ice as on it, Jarda works now at a veteran pace.

"Slow down, Sego," he teases, fitting his palms to the swell of Tyler's ass and gripping hard. "No need to rush."

"Does that mean you can't keep up?" Tyler gasps, the attempt at bratty chirping belied in every way by his wide-blown eyes, the heave of his chest beneath the shirt that’s already dark with sweat.

For an answer, Jarda moves away from the door and takes Tyler with him: it’s two steps back towards the bed, then he turns and throws Tyler onto it. His breath punches out as he bounces on the mattress, scrabbling on his back. Jarda watches, amused and hard, as Tyler struggles out of his shirt and flings it haphazardly aside, hands moving to unbutton his jeans. Jarda lets him get as far as that, then grabs his ankles and tugs, just firmly enough that Tyler sprawls flat on the bed again. His shoes have no laces and there's no socks beneath them, which makes it the work of a dexterous moment for Jarda to pull them off and, in pointed contrast to Tyler's treatment of his shirt, kneel down and settle them neatly.

 Wide-eyed, Tyler lifts his head to watch as Jarda grips the denim of his jeans and – slowly, purposefully – pulls. There's a moment of resistance where nothing happens; then Tyler shifts his weight onto his arms and lifts his hips, panting as the denim skims down his thighs and calves in a slow caress. Again, he makes a point of folding the jeans as he takes them off, setting them on the floor beside Tyler's shoes, and when he finally stands again, he looks down on him with all the pointed authority of the veteran which, in every important respect, he is.

Tyler looks up at him, nipples hard and lips shiny, legs spread in invitation. As though considering his options, Jarda leans down and hooks his fingers in Tyler's boxers, dragging them off as slowly as he did his jeans. He's seen Tyler's dick in the locker room, but that's hardly the same as seeing it hard. He knee-walks into the space between Tyler's thighs and takes it in hand, running an appreciative thumb over his foreskin, playing with a bead of precome.

"You're lucky you're not cut," he says, enjoying the way Tyler pants and squirms, hips bucking up into the contact. "So many Americans are. It makes this – " he strokes his shaft, the foreskin pulling up and down, getting tighter and wetter each time, "– so much more difficult."

"I wouldn't know," gasps Tyler. In an admirable bid to give as good as he's getting, he lifts his chin to indicate Jarda's boxers. "You going to show and tell, too?"

"Soon," he says, and takes his hand off Tyler's dick in favour of once more grabbing his thighs, pushing each one up and wide to test his flexibility. Tyler, it turns out, is _very_ flexible, folding up as neatly as any man Jarda's ever fucked. Tyler whimpers, gripping the coverlet as he stares up in awe, ripe and sweet and begging for whatever Jarda will give him.

Jarda presses his clothed dick against the curve of Tyler's ass, just hard enough to let him feel the thrust in his hips, the size of what he's packing. "You ever fuck yourself?" he asks, letting his hands slide just a little bit higher on Tyler's thighs. "Fingers, a toy?"

Tyler nods desperately, a bright blush staining him from cheeks to chest. "A few times," he says. And then, when Jarda raises a questioning eyebrow, "I liked it."

"Hmm," says Jarda again. "So, if I ask to fuck you now, you know how to answer truthfully, yes? You know the difference between _wanting_ and _being ready_?"

"Yeah," croaks Tyler, "Yeah, yes – I'm – I'm ready, I want – oh, _fuck_ –"

"Good boy," croons Jarda, rutting against him a little. Tyler groans and thumps his head on the pillow, legs trembling under Jarda's hands. God, he is going to _ruin_ this boy, and both of them will love it.

"Tell you what," says Jarda. "You give me your mouth a little first, huh? You get me nice and wet for you, and then –" he tips his head to indicate the lube and condoms on the bedside table, "– I get you nice and wet for _me_."

With that, he drops Tyler's legs and pushes himself back down the mattress, once more standing at the foot of the bed. He waits until he has Tyler's attention, then slips a thumb over the edge of his boxers and tugs them off, letting them drop to the floor. Tyler's eyes widen, which is both gratifying and expected. Jarda has never much cared for locker-room dick-measuring contests; but then, as the clear winner nine times out of ten, he's never needed to. He strokes himself, letting the wet head poke through the circle of his fingers. His cock is thick and long, too big to stand up unsupported when hard. _Not for beginners_ , a part of him thinks, and he chuckles at the contrast between the thought and what he's about to do anyway. Not, of course, that he'll be put out if Tyler decides it's too much to take. There's plenty of other things they might do together, and a whole night to do them in.

As Tyler licks his lips in anticipation, Jarda walks around to the other side of the bed and settles himself against the headboard, legs parted. Tyler crawls over to him, running his clever hands up the spread of Jarda's calves, knees, thighs. He looks at him, a glint of mischief in his expression.

"You're lucky I like a challenge," he says.

Jarda grins at him. _Oh, I like this one._ "You're lucky you've got a big mouth," he says. "Now show me how you use it."

Tyler shudders at the order, head dropping gracefully down. He fits his lips to the crown of Jarda's cock, sucking lightly as he slips a hand down to stroke his balls, then up to circle the base. Jarda groans, pleasure spiking through him as Tyler's mouth slides down, taking in progressively more of him. He's not dumb enough to attempt deep-throating on his first time out, but the tight breath he draws in through his nose says he's testing his limits admirably.

Jarda slides a hand to his head and sinks his fingers into short brown curls. He gives an experimental tug, grunting in approval as Tyler moans around his cock, and uses his grip to guide him gently up and down, down and up. Tyler's tongue works him as much as his lips, and if Jarda was so inclined, it would be a pretty thing to put the boy on his knees and fuck into that wet, warm mouth, paint come across his cheeks and beard and smear his dick across his spitwet chin.

Another time, perhaps. It's a very pleasant thought. But right now, he has other plans, and when he feels Tyler start to lag, he tugs him off completely. Tyler blinks up at him, dazed and panting as he straightens up. His lips are wet and so is his dick, the two flushed complimentary shades of pink. His beard is damp, and Jarda can't resist saying so, leaning in to kiss the skin beneath his ear and murmur, "I bet girls love that look on you, all eager when you drink them in. So teachable, yes? So good with your tongue."

Tyler makes a ragged noise and presses his head to Jarda's shoulder. He's sweating and goosebumped, lipping at Jarda's collarbone in a silent entreaty.

"How do you want it?" Jarda asks him, stroking the inside of Tyler's thigh. "On your back, or on your knees?"

"Knees," Tyler whispers, shuddering all over. He lifts his head, eyes blazing, and Jarda kisses him, wrapping him up and squeezing before he lets go.

He doesn't watch as Tyler gets himself ready, focussing instead on donning the condom, smearing both it and his fingers with lube. This inattention is maybe a mistake, however; he can't help swearing when he finally turns back, taken all at once by the sight of Tyler kneeling for him, back arched, forehead pressed to the mattress as he leans his weight on his arms.

Jarda moves in behind him, slipping into Czech without quite meaning to. "Look at you, you beautiful boy. Spread out for me like a present."

Tyler whimpers, catting into it as Jarda gets him wet. He slips a thumb in, gauging the give of Tyler's body, thrilling at the throaty, involuntary moan that touch produces. He swears out loud – in Czech, in English – and swaps the thumb for the thick, lubed head of his cock, rutting experimentally forwards, seeing how much of him Tyler can take, how soon he can take it, how well and willingly.

Tyler groan-whines, gasping, turning his head to the side as he clutches the covers. Jarda slides far enough inside him that he no longer needs to guide himself and takes a double-handed grip on Tyler's hips instead, thumbs gently helping the spread of him. He reads Tyler's reactions: stops to give him space when his breathing tightens, eases in again when he twitches back against the pressure, coaxing Tyler's body into doing what both of them want of it. With an inch left to go, Tyler lifts his head just enough to bow it down again, a throaty noise running through him that Jarda could swear he feels in his cock. Reverent and impressed, he lifts one hand to stroke it down the muscled, sweatslicked plane of Tyler's back.

"Tell me when," he rasps, his own composure breaking a little. Tyler inhales raggedly, shoulders trembling with the strain of holding himself in place. Jarda feels the twitch and clutch of him, muscles testing against the electricity of their own pleasure; against the foreign rightness of this new intrusion.

Tyler laughs, high and desperate. "Oh god," he whispers. "Fuck, just – fuck me. Please. _Now._ "

Jarda buries himself in Tyler, presses his hips against his ass. He takes a breath, as much to steady himself as for courtesy's sake, trails his fingertips over the divots of Tyler's spine, resettles his grip on his hips. And then he starts to fuck him – deep and slow and hard, the best core workout ever devised by man. Tyler lasts half a minute before dropping his chest to the covers, the sudden shift in angle bowing Jarda forward. Tyler is ceaselessly vocal, breathy whines and desperate half-articulations peppered with moans and gut-punched noises. Jarda takes a hand from his hip and rakes his nails down Tyler's flank and Tyler nearly shouts in pleasure, panting as Jarda grabs his hair and tugs for leverage.

"You think you can come like this?" he gasps out, noticing that Tyler hasn't so much as tried to touch himself. "Just come on my cock?" The words and concept both send a spike of arousal through him; Tyler clenches and whimpers, head thrashing desperately in an attempted nod.

Jarda swears again, fucking harder and faster. Tyler cries out and writhes underneath him, clawing at the pillows in a fruitless quest to brace himself.

"So good, so sweet." Jarda's panting now, on the ragged edge of losing it. He barely even notices he's switched back to Czech, overwhelmed by the sight of his slick cock sliding in and out of Tyler's perfect body. "So fucking ripe for me, gorgeous boy, you take my cock like you're made for it, all hot and open – "

He tails off into a shout, failed by words in any language as Tyler makes an almost inhuman noise, bucks underneath him and comes untouched, his spasming body wrenching Jarda forwards. Jarda grinds himself into Tyler, moves his hands from hips to mattress, and comes like he hasn't come in years, so hard and well that he almost loses himself completely.

Jarda collapses against Tyler's back, just conscious enough to pull them sideways in the process. He stays in him, reaching around to Tyler's stomach. Eyes closed, heart pounding, he lazily rubs Tyler's come across his washboard stomach, making a pretty mess of him. Tyler shudders through it, head tipped back to bare his throat, and Jarda can't resist sucking a mark onto the bare, pale skin, wringing one final whimper from Tyler in the process.

When he finally pulls out, Tyler groans and flops forward onto his stomach, a motionless lump as Jarda forces himself to dispose of the condom. He watches Tyler in the aftermath, reaching over to run an approving hand over the curve of his ass. "Good game," he chuckles, giving the cheek a smack. Tyler makes a muffled noise and, with visible effort, rolls over to face him.

"So good," he slurs, a dopey come-drunk smile on his face. " _Fuuuuuuck_."

"You sleep here, hm?" Jarda says, amused. "Save your legs the trouble."

"You broke me," Tyler mumbles. "M' never walking again."

Jarda thinks ahead to the morning; to the unclaimed hours between now and their afternoon departure. "Maybe not walk," he says, sliding his hand to Tyler's thigh, "but tomorrow, you could ride me."

Tyler makes a choking noise. "Oh _god_."

Jarda chuckles. "Is that a yes?"

"You are literally trying to kill me."

"Good death, though."

" _So good_." He grins at Jarda, sleepy and satiated. "Ask me again in the morning."

**Author's Note:**

> Reading this means you have no right to judge me. We are ALL Raccoons of Shame and shall dwell in the trash hereafter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] slow down (speed up)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665049) by [momopods (momotastic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momotastic/pseuds/momopods)




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